Anxious Dad Diaries

Having a child was never something that was on my to-do list, exactly. It’s something I always thought I would end up doing at some point, but I couldn’t picture when that would be. My wife Anna and I had frequent discussions about whether having a child was the right thing for us. We’re both musicians, and our shared fear was that a child would make us lose a big part of ourselves and prevent us from undertaking our various creative exploits. But at the same time, there was a subtle feeling that if we didn’t try, we would always be left wondering what might’ve been. Plus, a drummer would be useful. After many hours of discussion, we decided that Anna would stop contraception, and we would just leave it up to chance. After all, who was to say that it would work, even if we tried?

My wife and I only recently got married in May 2023. We went to Japan for our honeymoon in October and had the most epic two weeks of our lives, eating sushi, soaking in near-scorching onsens, and drinking an abundance of supermarket cocktails. On the long plane journey back, Anna leaned over and whispered “I think I might be pregnant.” I initially dismissed the thought, saying that her period was probably just a bit late, resuming the forgettable rom-com I was watching. In reality, I was just delaying the inevitable for as long as possible. After a pregnancy test hastily purchased at Boots in Heathrow Terminal 5, Anna confirmed later that evening that she was, in fact, pregnant. 

The first few weeks after we found out were filled with suspense and disbelief. Both of us thought that there must've been some sort of mistake. This thought was quickly dispelled at the 12-week scan. I sat beside Anna as she reclined in the sonographer’s chair, cold viscous jelly on her stomach, our eyes glued to the screen in nervous anticipation. Suddenly, a blurry, fuzzy outline of our unborn child accompanied by the soundtrack of a swooshing heartbeat changed our lives forever. And yet, even though we were seeing our child for the very first time, I still couldn’t make the connection between reality and what I was seeing on the screen. The two things seemed completely disconnected.

After our first scan, we booked an appointment with our local midwife, a lovely woman called Martha. It quickly became apparent that Anna would have to have a blood test, something that she found extremely challenging due to her severe needle-phobia. While Martha left the room briefly, Anna turned to me, her face filled with panic. “I’m not sure I can do this. Not just the blood test, but the whole thing, this doesn’t feel right.” I felt her panic, but I also felt resolutely confident that we could, in fact, do this. Not just the blood test, but the whole thing. Martha came back into the room, and sensing the level of anxiety, put on some calming music, and got to work. We worked as a team. I employed some distraction techniques, asking Anna to describe our cats in as much detail as possible, and Martha took the blood samples. Many more nurses would hear Anna describing our cats in the following months.

We found out we’d be having a girl at the 20-week scan. We were completely overwhelmed with joy. I’ve always felt more comfortable around girls than boys. I grew up with two older sisters, and I have two female cats. The idea of having a boy scared me, and it wasn’t just because of the thought of circumcision, which would probably be expected considering my Jewish background (have you ever been to a bris? I wouldn’t recommend it). Although I had a very comfortable upbringing, I had a slightly complicated relationship with my father, something I didn’t want to pass on to my daughter. 

My dad never spoke about his parents (or any other aspect of his life, for that matter). They died when I was very young. I do know that my grandpa, who we called Opa, was a German refugee, and my grandma, Oma, was an Austrian refugee, both of whom fled the Nazi regime and came to London in the late 1930s. I found out much later that my Oma’s parents were murdered in Austria, and no one knows what happened to my Opa’s parents, but it’s safe to say it wasn’t a happy ending. My only memory of my Oma was of her preparing Viennas (beef sausages) in the kitchen of her North London home, with mid-afternoon sunlight pouring in through the window. I don’t remember her face, but I can still vividly picture her silhouette. Some of the trauma my father inherited from his parents was passed down to me, but I was adamant not to let it continue trickling down the family tree.

A good friend of mine had recently undertaken an intensive 8-week hypnotherapy course and spoke very highly of the experience. I thought that now would be as good a time as any to try it. Ordinarily, I would be very cynical about this kind of thing, but the endorsement of my friend helped me feel slightly more curious about it. Meditation has always been extremely challenging for me, as my naturally anxious brain tends to race whenever it is left idle. However, I was keen to keep an open mind. 

I lay on the hardwood floor of my bedroom, connected to my hypnotherapist via Zoom. He was a lovely person and we got on well, however, I was distinctly aware that I would be revealing my deepest, darkest subconscious thoughts to someone I had only just met. It was an odd situation, and I felt strange, awkward and vulnerable. He took me through some relaxation exercises, and I tried my hardest to clear my frantic mind. The first session was made up of a simple, free association exercise. He told me to imagine my mind was a time machine and to go back and recall anything that came into my head. Initially, I played it safe with a few ‘feeling lost on my first day at school’ memories, but as I became more relaxed and comfortable, a memory involuntarily came to the surface. I remembered being on holiday with my parents in France at the age of 13, and how they were fighting horribly. I was in the back of the rental car, and my father was driving erratically. I felt scared and out of control. And then I started crying uncontrollably. After the session, I felt drained and empty. I knew I had touched on something important. Clearly, I had been suppressing these issues, and now, as I stood on the brink of fatherhood, I needed to come to terms with these memories and use them to move forward and reflect on the type of father I wanted to be.

As Anna’s pregnancy progressed into month five, she still didn’t really look any different. Perhaps from certain angles, there might've been a small bump, but it still wasn’t enough to make me realise that this was a real thing that was actually happening. Moving forward into month six, that all began to change very quickly. Every day she seemed to look bigger and bigger. Suddenly there was physical evidence of what we had done, what we were doing, and what we were about to take on. 

My weekly hypnotherapy sessions continued, progressing into metaphorical visualisations involving my past, and direct conversations with my subconscious, demanding it to free me from the shackles of my childhood trauma. This was possibly the most difficult thing about the entire process. When you’ve been anxious your entire life, as I have, it’s very difficult to snap your fingers and say ‘let’s stop being anxious now.’ In many ways, my anxiety is my worst enemy, but it’s also my best friend. It’s not something I can just wave goodbye to. The most useful part of the process was coming face to face with the memories that have underpinned my trauma. This was enough for me to start the process of healing.

Anna and I started going to antenatal classes during month eight of the pregnancy. A group of 11 couples gathered together each week in a room at the back of a pub in Walthamstow. The fact that it was in a pub worked in everyone’s favour, as we could use alcohol to try and numb ourselves after learning what an episiotomy was. I felt extremely on edge as we all went around and introduced ourselves. All the men seemed to be so calm, grown-up and ready to take on the fatherhood role, at least on the surface. In contrast, I felt like a nervous child. 

Throughout the pregnancy, the baby was choosing to lie horizontally, as if she were in a hammock of sorts. At our regular midwife appointments, Martha assured us that it was fine and the baby still had time to move. However, as we drew closer and closer to the final weeks of the pregnancy, it became apparent that the baby wasn’t moving into the correct ‘head down’ position. Anna tried everything she could to move the baby into the right position; from strange yoga poses, to ‘moxibustion,’ which involves burning a foul-smelling bunch of herbs next to your little toe (don’t ask). We even resorted to having an ECV (external cephalic version), a medieval-like procedure where two doctors manually try to move the baby by pushing and shoving on the stomach. It was incredibly uncomfortable for Anna and distressing for me to watch, which made it even more disappointing when we were told that it didn’t work. Anna had her heart set on a natural birth, but unfortunately, with the baby in the position that she was, there was no reality in which this could happen. The c-section was booked to take place on June 10th.

There were many advantages to having a c-section booked in. By taking out the element of surprise, we were able to mentally prepare ourselves by counting down to the moment our lives would change forever. I could also book a parking space in advance, which was an added bonus. However, as we drew close to the final days of the pregnancy, Anna lamented the loss of the full birth experience; spontaneously going into labour, packing her bags, and going through the challenge of childbirth together, as a team. There was a part of her that felt a c-section was cheating, somehow. The main reason, however, why Anna was keen not to have a c-section, was the needles. The cannula, which would be piercing the skin of her hand for a good 24 hours or more, and the spinal anaesthetia, which made even my skin crawl. And of course, the c-section itself. As the day drew closer, I advised Anna to call Martha to relay some of her concerns. In a slightly tearful conversation, I overheard her say: “I just feel like I’ve failed.”

The evening before the c-section, we treated ourselves to a takeaway, and I made sure we had a lovely evening filled with joy and relaxation. It felt strangely familiar, like we were preparing to play an important gig. We were told to arrive at the hospital at 7am, so we got an early night and tried to get as much rest as possible, even though neither of us felt like sleeping. We woke up at 5.45am, feeling groggy and low. The weather outside reflected our mood; grey, drizzly, the air cold and blue. As we pulled our clothes on and got our bags together, Anna suggested I take one final photo of her as a pregnant woman. Standing in our bedroom, I took the photo. Suddenly, a gush of water splattered onto the carpet, and carried on for a good five seconds. We looked at each other in horror. We had heard many stories about what it looked like when waters break. Many people told us it wasn’t like it was in the movies, and some women didn’t even notice it. There was absolutely no mistaking what this was, however. After a tense moment, I broke the silence: “Right, let’s get going then!”

Anna’s waters breaking gave us a renewed sense of positivity. It meant that the baby was meant to come today. At that time in the morning, it only took us 20 minutes to drive to the hospital. I dropped Anna off at the front entrance and went to find the parking space I was so proud to have booked. As Anna’s waters had already broken, we were pushed to the front of the c-section queue. There were a few other couples around us in the ward, all in various stages of anxiety, some hiding it better than others. It made me feel slightly less alone. 

As more and more doctors, midwives and anaesthetists poked their heads around our curtain, we realised our time was drawing near. I was given a set of bright blue scrubs to change into. The novelty of how I looked provided some much-needed levity, if only temporarily. Looking at my reflection, I considered the course my life might have taken if I had decided to try a bit harder at school and enter the medical profession. There was a time in my life when I dreamed of becoming a doctor. Soon enough, a nurse came in and told us it was time to go. As we walked to the operating theatre, I was again reminded of the anticipation of walking from the backstage area to the stage. Halfway down the hall, I realised I had forgotten to take Anna’s phone, which had our birth playlist on. I rushed back to the ward, only to bump into Martha at the entrance. “What are you doing here?” I asked, somewhat frantically. “I’m looking for you!” she smiled. I was so thrilled that Martha had come to be with Anna when I knew she needed her the most. I grabbed Anna’s phone, and rushed back to the operating theatre with Martha following closely behind. I threw open the double doors, and proclaimed: “Look who I found!” It meant so much for Martha to be with us now after having been with us since the very beginning of this journey. Everything was coming full circle, and it made me feel incredibly emotional. I found myself crying as we entered the operating theatre, the gravity of the situation seemingly too much for me to handle. I tried my best to pull it together though, as I knew I needed to be strong for Anna, now more than ever. 

The first hurdle was the cannula. Anna’s needle-phobia goes through several stages. First, there’s denial. “I want to go home, sorry, I don’t think I can do this,” Anna implored. “I’m really sorry, you can’t go home, you’re having the baby now!” laughed the anaesthetist, in an attempt to keep things lighthearted. After denial, she usually moves towards bargaining. I employed some of the distraction techniques we had used for the blood tests, and we managed to insert the needle and cover it with some medical tape, so at least Anna didn’t have to see it. The next hurdle was inserting the needle for the spinal anaesthesia. In some ways, this was better, as Anna didn’t have to see it. However, the final hurdle was the biggest: having the c-section. The anaesthetist applied a cold spray on Anna’s wrist and then on her stomach, asking her to compare the two sensations. He did this regularly, monitoring the anaesthetic’s effect as it spread throughout her body. He would then pinch the skin on her stomach, asking what Anna could feel. There was some debate over whether Anna could simply feel the sensation, or feel any pain. The more focus was given to the feeling, the more panicked Anna became over what lay ahead. There was a moment where we discussed Anna being put under general anaesthetic, although this came with some risk to the baby, and I would have to leave the room, meaning that neither of us would be present when the baby was born. I knew, and I think the anaesthetist also knew, that this was just the bargaining stage, and we needed to push through to the acceptance stage. The anaesthetist very astutely broached the idea of starting the c-section, offering to put Anna under general anaesthetic at any time. Anna, very reluctantly, agreed. A sheet was put up at Anna’s waistline, and the surgeon got to work. 

I was stationed by Anna’s head, with Martha on her other side. Her arms were flayed outwards, resting on stands, as if being crucified. She looked up at Martha, a look of complete despair and hopelessness in her eyes, and said: “I want my mummy.” For the next few minutes, Martha and I spoke in gentle tones, and we listened vaguely to the music that was playing through a nearby speaker. There was These Days by Nico. I explained to Martha that this was the song Anna and I walked down the aisle to, just last year. There was Our House by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, which we signed the marriage register to. It felt like every song was a snapshot of the pivotal moments of our relationship, leading up to perhaps the most significant. Suddenly, a silence descended upon the room, and we heard a small cry. The screen was lowered, and our baby was lifted up. Tiny, glistening, perfect. In the background, Georgia by Yuck played.

We were so consumed with getting through the c-section, it was almost as if we had forgotten the entire reason why we were there. The baby was taken off to the corner of the room to be cleaned and inspected. “Whoops, she’s done a poo,” said one of the nurses. Clearly she had inherited my sense of humour. Once she was good to go, she was bundled in a towel and placed on Anna’s chest. I felt oddly emotionless. I once heard someone describe seeing the northern lights, and feeling like they should have some sort of life-changing epiphany, but the pressure of wanting to feel something profound created an emotional vacuum. I felt a similar way. I didn’t really have an image of what she would look like in my mind, but whatever I pictured, it wasn’t this. Firstly, she had a nearly full head of hair. Her features were dainty, almost fairy-like. The last nine months were leading up to this tiny human, lying on Anna’s chest. What was once completely abstract was now undoubtedly real.

A few hours after the surgery, friends and family began asking us about a name. We had been calling her Cecilia more or less since we found out we were having a girl. We had a list of other names, but none of them really stuck. We liked the name because St. Cecilia was the patron saint of music, and it also felt like a good balance - traditional, but with a little bit of flair. For her middle name, we felt it was appropriate to go with Georgia, because that was the song that she was born to. Cecilia Georgia Bloom.

It’s been a month now since we’ve known Cecilia, but it feels like a lifetime. It’s been terrifying, anxiety-inducing, and wonderful, all at the same time. There have been infinite nappy changes, projectile weeing (and pooing, occasionally), and very little sleep. I discovered very early on that she absolutely loves it when I play guitar to her, most likely because it reminds her of when she was in the womb. Her favourite songs are Blackbird, Here Comes The Sun, or any Beatles song I can quickly Google the lyrics for. Do I feel any different? Not really. I still feel fundamentally like the same person I was before. I still get anxious, and I still don’t really feel like an adult. But I do know that I love Cecilia, I love Anna, and I would do anything for them. Time to start a dad rock band.